


On Courtship

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [12]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, F/F, F/M, Fingerfucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3219302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas at DoSaC, but Malcolm Tucker - Winged Alpha of Westminster - has other things on his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Low

**Author's Note:**

> Another fine production from the Tumblr collaboration of the-crazy-geek and themasterplanner. This *was* supposed to be posted at Xmas but a few health issues got in the way.

Sam was snoozing peacefully under Malcolm’s arm when he woke up from a fitful sleep. So much to do and really no fucking time to do it. The continual fuckups of MPs kept him running around at work, a new slew of Winged social climbers entering London kept him fighting to maintain his Alpha status, and Sam occupied his nights. It was fucking exhausting trying to keep up with a continually horny Mate in a Heat cycle, but…

 

Malcolm sniffed the air and realised what had been giving him a strange feeling since he woke up. The honey-musk scent of a fertile female no longer filled the air; all he could detect was the normal scents of both of them. Her cycle was over, and she hadn’t got pregnant.

He didn’t quite know whether he should be disappointed or fucking relieved. She’d probably go back into Heat again within a year if her biology co-operated, but for now, she would be free of that constant burning desire. He couldn’t imagine what it was like, but surely a break must be nice?

Malcolm looked down at her face, so peaceful in its repose, and wondered if she’d just up and leave and go back to her own place now. Getting a full night’s sleep for once without a sex-crazed woman jumping on you every few hours felt like a fucking brilliant idea to his knackered body. He was over fifty and nae getting any younger, after all.

“Fuck,” he whispered. He’d got used to her being there, having someone to listen to him rant after work and again when he woke up and got dressed. Cooking dinner for two was infinitely more enjoyable than for one, even made up for her habit of using every towel in the bathroom every time she had a shower. Her years of experience as his personal assistant had also made her an expert at when to just leave him alone for an hour or two, although just knowing she was there in another part of the house was…oddly soothing.

Malcolm began to have the horrible feeling that Jamie was right — the fucking answers-to-no-fucker Alpha Male of Westminster had just gone and become fucking domesticated. He’d be laughing his pin feathers off if he could see his Alpha now, worrying over a wee slip of a posh girl.

A wee slip of a posh girl who wouldn’t want to sleep with him anymore. Christ. For all his self-taught expertise in Winged matters, he’d not bothered to ask what happened between Mates when breeding cycles were not upon them.

Malcolm was more aware than ever before of his age and his physical flaws — the grey hair, the deeply etched lines on his face, the bags under his eyes,  the overlong limbs, the mussed and neglected feathers. The years in politics had left their mark upon him, and he wasnae the looker he used to be. Would Sam suddenly realise she was sleeping with a man old enough to be her father — a scrawny old man with grey wings — and leave him?

But as she mumbled in her sleep and snuggled under his wing, he threw those thoughts aside for a moment. Time enough to find out how the wee lass felt when she woke up, and if she was only attracted to him during Heat, well…Malcolm F Tucker could survive anything. Anything.

***

Waking up to an empty bed wasn’t exactly a new experience for Sam; Malcolm often woke up before dawn to grab the morning papers before they hit the shelves — how he’d managed that, he refused to discuss — and would usually be finishing the broadsheets by the time she walked into the kitchen.

Swinging her legs off the bed, Sam pulled on Malcolm’s dressing gown and headed to the bathroom for a hot shower.

It was a luxury Malcolm didn’t seem to enjoy much himself, but Sam loved the sensation of the jets of hot water washing over a sleepy body, soothing muscles sore from the previous night’s carnal acrobatics. The steaming water rushing down her back and arms, caressing her like Malcolm would do after they’d finished mating and —

She stopped suddenly as a realisation hit her. She’d been naked and showering while thinking about sex with Malcolm, and yet she wasn’t feeling in any way inclined to head downstairs and jump on him again. She prodded her memories of the last week, recalling their rough fevered couplings in nearly every room of the house, and… nothing. Fondness, a warm smile, yes, but not the soul-burning desire that had scorched both of them for weeks.

She toweled herself off and dressed, walking downstairs to the kitchen. Malcolm had already retracted his wings and put on his typical grey suit, and was now shrugging on his black overcoat.

"Malcolm, would you like to —"

"Can’t, love, got tae swim the channel of shite today. Meet me at the office, and bring coffee." He tucked his copy of The Guardian underneath his arm and swept out the door.

Sam didn’t fail to notice that he’d just spoken to her as her boss, and not as her Joined Mate.

And that he wouldn’t look her in the eyes.

***

“Jamie! Get your fucking slum-bred flea-infested fucking carcass in this office before I skin ye and turn ye intae floor mats for my Merc!” Malcolm had been in fine voice all morning, screaming abuse down phone lines and over instant messaging and email at a rate normally reserved for national catastrophes or General Elections. Even the predominantly Glaswegian staff in the Press Office were starting to look a little frayed around the edges by mid-morning. It seemed as though the Director of Communications was trying to solve every problem in the government, all at the same time.

Jamie headed toward his screaming boss’ office with the full intention of finding out who’d gone and replaced Malc’s bog roll with sandpaper or whatever the hell was causing the man to fucking shriek like a premenstrual banshee. He threw an almost sympathetic look at Sam as he went past her desk, but the wee thing wouldn’t even look up from her typing, even when he offered a greeting. Fucking marvellous. Malcolm going berserk and now with a marital spat to add to the shite blender.

Jamie didn’t fancy his chances of getting out of that office with all his feathers still attached. This was why Jamie Feardorcha MacDonald was never getting fucking Joined. Fuck all that shit. “All fucking right, ye auld cunt, I’m here, don’t get your tampon strings all knotted.”

Malcolm snarled and threw a copy of The Independent at his senior press officer. “Mind telling me how that fuckwit ex-Chancellor managed tae get on Have I Got News For You, on Hislop’s team no fucking less, without anyone in this place knowing?” Another paper sailed across the room toward Jamie and he caught it casually with one hand and took a glance at the article. Page 6, a few paragraphs about some jokes the man had made. He looked at Malcolm’s furious expression and laughed.

"Fuck sake Malc, this is nothing tae worry about. The man made a few wee jokes. Fucking hell, you’ve said worse." Malcolm’s sole appearance on Have I Got News For You had taken place when he was new to his job, and fairly raw. The BBC weren’t happy with the amount of edits they’d had to do to get something even remotely suitable for public broadcast. In his happier moments, Malcolm entertained the thought of sending Jamie next time.

He wasn’t happy today. Fucking far from it.

Malcolm leaned over, getting in his face.  ”MacDonald, in case ye’d forgotten, I rule here! I say when something is worth worrying about, you just carry out my fucking orders. You bring me information and you enforce my will, that is all you’re good fer!”

Jamie mentally calculated how many feathers he could afford to lose and still go out for a hunt tonight with that stunning bird in the administration offices he’d had his eye on. Black-haired, feisty and copper-Winged, she was his choice of mate tonight. If he survived this mad-eyed, bestial version of his boss, that is.

***

"What the fuck is your personal disaster, Tucker? This is minor shite, not worth a fucking yelling, not worth ye even using the story as khazi paper. You on your fucking period or something? Is Sam refusing tae suck on your shrivelled auld cock—"

The backhand came from nowhere, sending Jamie spinning back a few paces. The howl Malcolm let out with it was far more lupine than avian and even caused Jamie, veteran of many a fistfight, to back away. “Right, okay, so ye’ve had a fight with the missus, yeah? That’s why Sam’s looking like someone shot her dog and you’re chewing on the fucking walls like a mutt. Jesus, Malc, that’s nothing new. Just take her home an’ bang her intae the wall a few times—”

"She’s not in heat anymore." Malcolm announced that fact with as much emotion as he’d read the football scores. "All done, back tae normal, there’s no baby on the way, and she’s going back tae her own home."

"Come on, ye know it always takes a few tries." Jamie lowered his voice, almost soothing, rubbing at the prominent red mark on his face.  

"The Contract states she must bear a healthy Winged child before we can be Bonded." The Cassidy Flock had become impatient of late. Sam had been thoroughly tested by experts in Winged gynecology; they’d discovered nothing beyond the typical dysfunction common in ladies from aristocratic Flocks. But if Sam didn’t go Nesting — if she was infertile — they’d have no problem voiding the Contract and rematching Sam with someone else… and as for him, he knew the fucking Messinger Flock was circling the skies, eager to claim him for their widowed heiress. He tried to breathe deeply, calm himself down, refusing to give in to the itching, prickling feeling in his back. Last thing he needed was another ruined suit — his job paid exceptionally well, but those things were expensive and starting to last a month, tops.

***

"Fuck’s sake. Hang on." Jamie muttered, leaving the office briefly to request that Sam get some coffee for them both. The trick with Malcolm’s moods was usually to rile him up to the breaking point and then lance it like a boil filled with hatred and rage instead of pus; however with this situation they’d might well end up with structural damage to load-bearing walls in Number 10 if he tried that shit. This was Malcolm Tucker, his Alpha — Malcolm who had fought his way to the top of the most important and influential territory in the country, who could easily beat Jamie into a pulpy mess, who shagged anything that moved and was politically useful … and now he stomped around the office fretting about one woman, who couldn’t even fucking fly. What a proper fucking jessie.

He handed Sam a few notes — making a mental note to nick the balance out of Malcolm’s wallet later — and told her to go get “the decent shit yeah, that poncy cack Malc drinks because he’s too fucking good fer Nescafe. Black, two sugars fer me, and spend the rest on whatever ye want. Off with ye.” Jamie even managed to get a flicker of a smile out of her before she shrugged on her coat and headed out.

That should give them a good half hour or so before she came back.

“Right, I just gave your PA a good £20 of my own fucking cash to go get us some drinks and get us some fucking privacy.” Jamie stomped back into the room and shut the door.

“I know what ye get paid, ye can afford it.” Malcolm threw a microscopic smile over his shoulder at his senior press officer. “Won’t stop you fucking robbing me later though, will it?” Jamie liked rooting around in Malcolm’s pockets if he left them unattended — sometimes for money or information, other times for sex — and it was a reminder of normality that Malcolm desperately needed right then.

Jamie slouched in a chair probably older than he was and threw his hands up. “Nahh. I have tae rob ye now and then to keep you tied to your roots. Between what these fuckers pay you and yer lady missus, I expect ye tae start soundin’ like Bonkers Baldy half the time.”

There was no fucking danger of that ever happening. “Surprised you aren’t nicking Vauxhall Novas and doing handbrake turns on Cameron’s driveway, then.”

“Haven’t ruled it out.” Jamie grinned. Least the auld fuck was calming down a bit now. “Look, Malc, you can manage those bunch of inbred fuckspads. There’s worse politics goes on in the men’s bogs here than in the parlours of the blue-bloods. Actually, the bogs is worse since that new cock-hungry Etonian started over in the MOD—”

Malcolm spun his chair round and sat down, sifting through a few papers on his desk. “Yeah, heard about him. Isn’t he the one that leaves the half-empty lube packets in the fucking recycle bins?”

The conversation turned quickly to the lighter, funnier, incidents that occurred in the halls of power. An Alpha male doesn’t talk about his feelings to his underlings, and Malcolm Tucker was certainly no fucking exception. He’d sort his head out later, during a hunt.

***

"So, what’s on the agenda, Brenda?" By the time Sam got back, coffee in hand, Malcolm had calmed down, but of course that state of affairs couldn’t last for long in Number 10.

Departmental briefing, working the Dark Arts upon a Times hack who planned to run a hostile story about a new policy, a “friendly meeting” with a Finance minister who wasn’t toeing the party line… and Nicola Murray, doing some fucking charity telethon to show how much she cared about the poor wee sick kiddies, and a Christmas party at DoSAC after. The social affairs minister had insisted upon his attendance.

"The most wonderful fucking time of the year, eh?"

“Aye.” Jamie picked up the pile of work Malcolm had oh-so-kindly passed in his direction. “I’m thinkin’ of stapling mistletoe to that infant-school reject Reeder’s bollocks and then drop-kickin’ him intae the MOD bogs. Happy fucking Christmas.”

"I’d rather shove the mistletoe so far up his arse that his fucking tonsils will kiss under it."

Jamie left his boss to scratch out a memo on “Proper Seasonal Behavior for Ministers” and stopped by Sam’s desk on his way to deliver the gift of the Will of Malcolm across various departments. “He’ll be fine, love. If he goes totally Brian Blessed again, just give me a call and I’ll go get some raw pigeons fer him to tear apart instead of the staff, yeah?”

“On the roof, if you please. It’s not really part of my remit to scrub bird entrails off the furniture,” Sam quipped back with a faint smile. Whatever Jamie had done, it had worked. The decibel level coming from Malcolm’s office had dropped, the red-text emails hurtling into her account had stopped entirely, and even the air itself felt a little less oppressive.

“Nae problem. Right, I’m away tae go put the auld size 14s up the arse of some tosser. See ye later.”

***

Sam entered Malcolm’s office an hour later with a sheaf of notes from the PM. Nothing earth-shattering, thankfully, just a few ideas of where he’d like to go spend the holidays with a request for Malcolm’s opinion on which one he should go for.

“Useless fucking braindead shitheel.” Malcolm rolled his eyes at the list. “The Prime Minister of Great Britain does’nae go abroad at Christmas fer his holidays, fucking Daily Mail would love that one — ‘PM spends Christmas with the Frogs!’ No, he’s stayin’ home with his family. Throw in a photo shoot or two of him with the missus in front of a log fire, or I’ll do one of him in the log fire.”

Sam noted this down, the salient parts at least. “You’ve got the party later, are we —”

“—going? Yeah, fucking have to. One sniff of the ethanol and Nic’la is photocopyin’ her arse, so she can’t keep them under control.” Malcolm paused for a second and looked up at her for the first time that day. “You coming along, yeah? Could use the fucking backup.”

“Of course.”

“Atta girl. Right — get that tosser from Finance in my office in 30 minutes, will ye? Need tae sharpen the old talons on something.”

If Sam had spent a little longer in the ladies later than usual, at least she was clever enough to clean herself up so that no hint of her red eyes would be visible to Malcolm.

He only wanted me for children. For status.

***

Nicola Murray, MP, was currently busy trying to drink every single bottle of Rescue Remedy within sight. Why the hell did I agree to this telethon? Malcolm is going to disembowel me. The fact that the Prince of Darkness hadn’t shown up in the department yet today didn’t reduce her stress at all — it just meant he was probably planning a truly epic tear-Murray-apart entrance.

It had seemed like a good idea, and an easy one too. Go on television, take a few calls from people pledging money, and then make a discreet exit in time to make it to tonight’s departmental do. Simple enough, at least until Ollie had made a comment this morning about whether she’d cleared it with Malcolm first and her heart had frozen.

She gnawed at a fingernail and considered just sending the man an email before leaving and then blaming the lateness of it on the IT systems. No. Come on Nicola. You know what you have to do.

Pulling on a coat, she started off toward Malcolm’s office. WIth any luck, he’d be out and she could leave a message with the infinitely-nicer Sam.

***

She had barely made it halfway down the hallway when she was intercepted by Malcolm — a hawkish spectre of a man, all cheekbones and lanky limbs and grey Armani. He threw on his overcoat and grabbed her by the shoulders, hustling her out the door in the direction of a waiting Government car.

"Fucking move, right, you’re already going tae be late!"

Once they were in the back seat of the car, Malcolm barely spoke to her, other than the usual colourful warning to say nothing that hadn’t been pre-approved and the extremely gruesome potential consequences of going off script. Nicola found this more disturbing than his usual strings of insults.

After a few minutes, she was completely unable to bear the awkward silence, and opened her mouth to speak.

Malcolm caught sight of it and interrupted her before she could get a word out. “Fuck off. Managing yer media appearances already feels like trying tae piss out a kidney stone the size of an Easter Island head.”

She finally found her voice. “I didn’t ask you to come with me, Malcolm. I certainly didn’t ask to be thrown bodily into a car by you—”

“—you never would have got there if I hadn’t, and if ye had you would have fucked it up. Number 10’s cat did media trainin’ better than you, and all he does all day is lick his arse.”

The rest of the car journey was spent in silence. Malcolm glared out of the window as if the skies themselves had personally insulted him. If Nicola had been a bit braver, or not as nervous about her television appearance, she may have asked him what was wrong. As it was, she spent most of the journey rummaging through her handbag in hopes of any unopened bottles of Rescue Remedy.

***

Nicola was trapped in the tiny unoccupied office they’d been told was her “dressing room” while Malcolm tried to recite to her a list of things she could and couldn’t say. She wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that she was on the verge of tears.

“I can’t — I can’t fucking do this, Malcolm! You’re giving me too much to think about!” Nicola waved her arms frantically.

Malcolm ground his teeth. “It’s a fucking telethon fer needy goats or whatever the fuck — it’s not fucking Paxman. If ye can’t remember a few fucking stupid facts then, maybe, I should fucking blind ye and drag ye out in front of the cameras as their next sob story for the fucking sad lonely single women at home to blow their fucking noses to!”

He didn’t need this shit. He didn’t need to be crammed in a tiny room — the Alpha of Westminster would never admit to a slight touch of claustrophobia, but Winged were meant to live under the open skies — with a woman who poured off stress pheromones like a fucking waterfall every time she had to go in front of a camera. He just wanted to flare his wings out and grip her like a piece of fucking prey until the bloody woman stopped moving.

Malcolm reached out, grabbing Nicola by the shoulders — sinking his fingertips in deep enough to dent the shoulder of her jacket — and started shaking. “Stop. Fucking. Flapping. Ye look like prey, and I’ve not hunted today.” She’d blessedly stopped, perhaps in shock, and he ran a hand over his mouth. Jamie had better be up fer a hunt later, I’m goin’ fucking spare. Without saying a word he stripped off his suit jacket, and unbuttoned the collar of his dress shirt — the nearest he was going to let himself come to shucking his clothes and releasing his wings right now.

Nicola had sighed, in blatant lust, when the pale skin of his collarbone and long neck became visible. Fucking predictable, he thought, but he turned to look at her curiously as an idea hit the ever-turning gears of his mind.

She needs tae calm the fuck down. Malcolm looked at his watch — fifteen minutes before she had to be out of here and facing the crowds.

Time enough then. He could probably get her off in about five minutes or less, his calculations allowing another minute to make sure she could walk straight afterwards.

He moved closer to her and laid his hands on her shoulders, starting to roughly massage the tensed muscles. “Just fucking shut up and relax, yeah?” He could almost have been impressed at how Murray didn’t jump half out of her skin when his hands settled on her, if he didn’t know how fucking obsessed she was with him.

Nicola moved closer as well and wrapped her arms around him, resting her hands on his back.

“I, I take it you can’t just show a little bit of wing can you?” she stammered. That was what Nicola really wanted from him; she didn’t desire or even particularly like ordinary, wingless Malcolm Tucker.  

You’re not worth the effort right now.  Malcolm declined to reply to her wittering comments and instead kissed the slope of her neck, stifling a grin as she sighed and tilted her head back.

She wasn’t the only one who needed to relax — his breathing was heavier, and his hands had started to wander down her back, until his fingers slipped under the waistband of her skirt. If he couldn’t hunt, then a spot of quick meaningless sex should sate the primal urges for a bit.

He looked at his watch again. 12 minutes and 45 seconds. Time to up the tempo. He pressed his body up against hers, backing her into the wall, thrusting his knee between her legs.

Nicola moaned softly in the back of her throat when his left hand snaked round to under her blouse and started brushing over her nipples, which were already hard and peaked — it was all he could do to not tear the fine fabric off right there and then and lick at them like a choc ice. His other hand moved down behind her knee and pulled her leg up to settle on his hip. She leaned in to kiss him, but Malcolm twisted away — there’s no time for her to reapply lipstick.

She carefully untucked part of his shirt and slid her hands over his back, feeling the play of hard muscle and sinew underneath her fingers. “Are you sure you can’t—”

"Just use your fuckin’ imagination." His voice purred against her ear, pitched low so the sound wouldn’t carry beyond the door. "You love seeing my wings, don’t ye?" His hand moved up her leg slowly until it reached her arse. "Having them stretched out in front of ye." Malcolm’s hand reached her underwear and stroked back and forth. "Wrapping them around ye when you’re about tae come."

With that last word, Malcolm slid his fingers inside her knickers, Nicola gasping and holding onto his back as his long, slender fingers slicked themselves up with her arousal. “Look at ye,” Malcolm slid the tip of one finger inside her, her body offering no resistance at all, “fucking wetter than a cucumber in Holloway. All because I’ve got wings.” Another finger joined the first. “You can’t get enough of me.” A third finger slid inside her and he started to push them all deeper inside her as her hips bucked smoothly into his hand. “I bet ye walk around like this all day at work, hoping I’ll drop into yer fucking third-rate department and give ye a good hard seeing-to on the roof.” Malcolm slid his fingers out and then drove them back in, his thumb brushing against her clit, teasing until it was a slick, quivering little nub.

"Christ, ye’re fucking tight." Malcolm started to spread his fingers inside her, smiling when she responded with a shuddering gasp. "I think ye’d feel so good around my cock right about now."

Nicola’s breathing was becoming ragged, gasps of pleasure escaping her lips as Malcolm finger-fucked her, roughly and relentlessly. His touch was expert, constant, a steady swell of pleasure starting to build inside her.

"Fuck, harder, please—" Nicola was nearly incoherent, begging him for more, half-collapsed into his arms and completely at his mercy. Just the way Malcolm liked it. He thrust his fingers into her harder, deeper, quickening his pace.

"You do this at home, yeah? Think of me in flight, landing by you and just taking you right there, like a fucking great eagle." Her eyes were rolling back into her head now, her breathing deep and harsh, his fingers absolutely soaked.

"You think of me, and shut ye eyes, and then ye take yer Rampant Rabbit and bring yeself off, don’t ye?" The hand inside her was moving faster now, the other caressing those fantastic full tits and tweaking the stiff nipples.

"Oh yes, I know what you want." He hooked his fingers, rubbing over just the right spot, his thumb circling over her clit. "You want me to throw ye on the ground,pin ye down, spread my wings over your naked body —" He leaned in closer until his lips brushed against the shell of her ear. "rip your skirt off and fuck ye until you cannae walk straight —"

Nicola tried not to moan aloud at the filthy images he supplied. He started planting little sensual bites on her neck, where they’d be hidden by her shirt collar. He could feel her muscles fluttering and squeezing tight around his fingers. God, she was so fucking close to coming, the pressure building up like water against a dam. Nicola was a feather-slut like none other he’d ever encountered — so fucking wet and desperate whenever she saw a hint of wing. A nicer, kinder man would have directed her impulses toward someone more available, someone with a warm personality and enough of a wingspan to keep her happy.

Malcolm wasn’t that man — he had no qualms about cruelly using someone else’s kinks to his advantage whenever he needed to.

Nicola was shuddering and bucking against his body, getting closer to her climax as she rode his fingers but just not fast enough to suit him. Lucky for him then, that Murray’s sexual fantasies were more transparent than her fucking knickers right now…

He spread his fingers as far as they would go and firmly pressed his thumb against the throbbing, very sensitive bundle of nerves. “— my fuckin’ feathers all over you as I pound your wet, tight cunt fer all it’s worth, coming intae you and planting a little grey-winged baby inside you —”

Her head snapped back at the last sentence, her eyes wide, pupils blown. “M-Malcolm… it’s too much, I can’t take it… oh god—!” She clenched hard around his fingers and groaned as she came undone.

***

The dam broke and the orgasm roared through her body like a wave, bursts of light dancing behind her eyelids. Her breath came in short gasps as she spasmed around Malcolm’s elegant, wickedly talented fingers. Instead of releasing her, he kept moving, his fingers sliding in and out of her in long, deep thrusts until she was coming again. Or maybe she’d never really stopped coming the first time; she neither knew nor cared. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her legs shook beneath her, and her head was swimming with images of wings, feathers and gorgeous grey-winged children, all with Malcolm as their father and oh god…!

Malcolm slowly withdrew his fingers from her and licked them clean, holding her steady until her breathing evened out and her muscles stopped trembling. The smell of her sweat and sex filled the air, mingling with his own scents — Alpha pheromones, soap, and sweet preening oil. He glanced at his watch again. Three minutes and sixteen seconds. New personal record.

“Right,” he said once her eyes had re-focused, “fix up ye fucking slap and hair and get out there.”

Nicola’s voice sounded confused as she gestured toward him. “Are you sure you don’t want me to…” Her hand brushed against the visible erection tenting his trousers.

“No. Fuck off with ye and save some baby dinosaurs or whatever the fuck they are begging people for money for. I’ve got work that needs doing.”

Once she’d gone, after he’d had to tell her twice since she wouldn’t stop offering him some release of his own, Malcolm sat in the empty office-cum-dressing room and concentrated on the rest of his to-do list until the swelling in his trousers subsided, and tried to think of anything but Glummy Mummy kneeling before him with her plump lips round his cock. Unlike some people, he had some self-control.

***

Returning to the office, Malcolm breathed a minor sigh of relief as he caught part of the show that Murray was on, and for once she was on point and not fucking cocking everything up. The makeup artists had done a great job of covering up her flushed cheeks and tidying her mussed hair back to normal so she didn’t look like she’d just been fucked.

"Nice job there, Malc," Jamie announced from his desk in the press office, "she’s not called anyone a cunt or said the PM is a limp-dicked fuckspad with his brains in his bollocks. Whatever ye’ve been doing, it’s working." He threw a can of Red Bull overarm at his boss, who caught it in one swift movement. "Drink it. We’ve got that fucking party later and you look like a dead dog right now."

Malcolm acknowledged him with a tilt of his head and drained the can in a few seconds. He had needed it, but he’d be slobbing Lord Chromedome’s knob before he’d ever admit weakness. “You fucking smell like a dead dog,” he only half-joked to his underling. “Been rolling in dog muck again?”

"Nahh, bin-raiding and surveillance." Jamie shoved a few extremely crumpled photographs and torn slips of paper into his boss’ hands. "Found these in the bin of that super uptight twat who was preaching on about the ‘sanctity of marriage’ and sayin’ poofs should be denied jobs." He plucked out a specific shot and waved it under Malcolm’s nose. "I can tell ye that the lad he’s been calling for ‘escort services’ isn’t his wife.”

Malcolm barked a laugh and clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “See if there’s any tabloid hacks ye can quietly leak that to, yeah? Give the cunts an early Christmas present.”

"That hack bitch Reeder was shagging once?"

"Heaney? She’ll do." Malcolm crushed the empty can into a ball and threw it into the recycling bin — a good 20 metre shot, which earned him a few whoops from the Press Office lads — and turned toward his office. "Oh and fucking take a wash before the party, Jamie. You smell like Nellie the Elephant’s fanny."

"Fuck off, I should tell ye what you smell like.”

Malcolm returned to his office and checked his computer. Nothing left on the agenda today — everyone was doing a surprisingly good job of not fucking up — other than that fucking Christmas party at DoSAC in a couple hours. He wondered if he had time for a quick hunt. The weather was favourable — his dove-grey wings would be well-camouflaged within the thick cloud cover.

His eyes drifted over to Sam’s office. She’d done a fantastic job, as always, of keeping the office running while he was out delivering “season’s greetings,” but she hadn’t really said much to him the whole day. Malcolm dragged a hand down his face and made up his mind.


	2. High

*******

The skies were the same grey as the London pavements when Malcolm took off from the roof, leaving his suit jacket, shirt, and tie neatly folded and stacked behind a door. He’d fired off a quick message to Jamie first, asking if he’d like to join him in “grabbing a wee snack” but the shortarsed jackdaw had already started off for home for a “shower, shave an’ a fucking great shite” before the evening’s festivities.

Ahh well, he didn’t need him anyway. The thick clouds rolling over Central London hid him perfectly and the pigeons were practically flying into his grasp.

 

Malcolm swooped and soared through the air, then broke out into a glide. The sun hung in the grey sky, with slices of violet, red, and gold visible along the horizon.

The silhouette of another pigeon caught his eye, flapping away fast. His mind clouded with hunger and lust for the hunt, Malcolm swooped down with powerful thrusts of his wings until he moving easily at ninety miles per hour.

When he dived, his speed was well over double that. The pigeon didn’t stand a chance. His talon-like hands closed around its neck and snapped it.

A rare falcon approached, and Malcolm briefly contemplated adding it to his catch, but out of respect for a fellow bird of prey he decided to spare it. Instead, he stretched out his fingers to briefly stroke the feathers of its grey head — and the falcon let him, trusting him as one of its own kind. Malcolm even offered the falcon the pigeon he’d just caught, watching as it took the bird from his hand and flew away.

"There. Happy fucking Christmas." …from one raptor to another.

Jamie would have called him a fucking weak arsebandit for that, another reason to be glad he was alone.

Up here, everything seemed so bloody distant. The problems of work, of home, of politics were all far away, trapped on the ground. Up here, he was the master of this domain — there wasn’t a single Winged in Westminster who wouldn’t bow to his authority, eventually. Malcolm extended his wings out to their full stretch and coasted easily on a large thermal, turning figure eights in the air, just for the sheer joy of being aloft. He could hear the cries of the falcons overhead; he answered them with his own. He was apex predator, ruler of these skies —

Sam will never know this. She will never be able to share this with you. Fucking traitorous human mind poking its grey matter in where it wasn’t wanted, again. He turned back, heading back toward Number 10 to collect his clothing and eat,  his great pointed wings flapping. From there he could fly directly to the massive complex that housed DoSAC and several other departments.

He folded his wings for a dive, opening them and tilting his body back for the landing, skidding on the concrete roof. The burn in his muscles felt good, his breaths deep and cleansing, the experience of hunting extremely rewarding.

He sat perched upon the ledge, his great silvery wings gathered around his shoulders, and ripped the feathers off one of the pigeons, tearing the meat off its bones with his sharp teeth in a vicious, greedy relish and swallowing it in chunks. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

***

The staff at DoSAC had just put the finishing touches on the office, but the garlands and tinsel only managed to accentuate the drab modern architecture rather than detract from it.

The Christmas tree was a rather sad affair, the sparse branches barely managing to support a few strings of lights and some clay ornaments that looked as if they were supplied by a school for blind children. Meanwhile, Terri Coverley teetered on the edge of her desk as she affixed a bunch of mistletoe to the ceiling.   
  
Ollie Reeder took a long draw from his cup of eggnog — to which he’d added a good splash of brandy, as he didn’t think he could make it through this farce of a party sober — and blurted out: “You know, we could put Malcolm Tucker in a gown, stick a halo on him, and use him to top the tree.”

Nicola, who was standing on one of the desks trying to secure more tinsel on the ceiling tiles, quirked a smile at that. “The world’s angriest angel? Ollie, he’d rip your head off for even asking.”

“Okay, fine, it was a joke. You gotta admit he’d look imposing — a great scowling silver-winged angel with—”

He hadn’t realized Jamie MacDonald had sneaked up behind him until it was too late.

"Or we could roll yer cock-hungry arse in glitter and shove the entire fuckin’ tree down yer throat, eh?"

Ollie tried to think of a biting retort to Malcolm’s wee attack dog, but Nicola had stumbled on the uneven surface of the desk, and Ollie was forced to cut off his train of thought to make some move toward catching her if need be. Wouldn’t do his career any bloody good if his boss broke her neck, and even Glenn Cullen was looking at him strangely, so it was best to shut up now.

Once Nicola was safely to the floor, Ollie decided to go for a fag. If Jamie was at DoSAC, Malcolm would soon follow, and he needed all the chemical help he could get if he wanted to make it out alive.  

He’d no sooner made it to the rooftop and pulled a cig from his pocket when he saw a pair of monstrously large grey wings, blocking the light from the street lamps and casting an enormous shadow overhead. That could only mean one thing.

Ollie ran for the rooftop access door as Malcolm descended with pinpoint precision, a silver-feathered spear in flight. But the Director’s sharp eyes missed nothing, and within a second Ollie was cornered.

If Malcolm had been frightening before, without wings, now he was fucking pants-pissingly terrifying. A dangerous, cunning predator, all lithe muscle and feathered wings and raw power under the tailored Armani suit.

"What are you so fucking afraid of, Reeder?" Malcolm’s voice was more bestial growl than anything human. He was glaring at him with eyes as cold as ice, his great wings held high in a clear threat display and his hands curled into talons. His wings were silver blades, imposing in every sense of the word.

“You, Malcolm!” Ollie backed away a few steps, dropping the cigarette. “Fucking hell, do you know what you look like right now?”

"No. But please do enlighten me, Poxbridge." Malcolm wore nothing but his suit trousers and a twisted grin that practically dared Ollie to say something — but any thoughts of mockery disappeared faster than antacids at a curry house when Ollie noticed the blood on his lips and fingers. What the fuck had the old monster been doing?!

Malcolm realised what Ollie had been staring at and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “Fucking flying lunch is always messy,” he said, and licked the remaining blood off of his fingers with enough relish to make Ollie truly queasy. “Give us a fag, an’ I don’t mean you.”

Well, what else could he do but hand over his Benson and Hedges to Malcolm? The communications director swiped the entire packet and narrowed his eyes in concentration for a second until his wings started folding away. “Cheers, Nutgobbler. Those’ll do fer Jamie’s present.”

Malcolm pocketed the cigarettes with a deft hand, and before Ollie could react, he’d grabbed him by the tie and yanked him forward, kissing him full on the mouth deeply and hard, his tongue overpowering his own with casual and brutal ease. His lips tasted of blood and raw meat and Ollie was quite disturbed to find that this didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should. In fact, it felt really good, and really close to certain dreams he’d had been having lately.

Malcolm pushed him away after only a few seconds and, much to Ollie’s disappointment, shrugged his dress shirt and suit jacket on, then fixed his tie and shoved him out of the way of the rooftop door. What else could he do but follow? He was a subservient creature, following in the footsteps of his superior. Ollie ground his teeth and swore that would change soon. Very soon.

***

A few minutes later, Nicola was enjoying, or at least trying to enjoy, her fourth Mojito of the evening and watching Malcolm. He’d never really fitted in at parties; even when she hadn’t known about his wings, he always gave the impression he was itching to fly out of the nearest window and away from people. The man looked caged.

In itself, she wouldn’t have hesitated to go over to him and try to get him to open up a bit, let out his frustrations, even if they were aimed at her. Glenn and Ollie had told her a thousand times how bloody fruitless that endeavour was, that Malcolm F Tucker didn’t have any kind of hidden depth for her to draw out — what you saw was what you got: a 24-carat bastard. None of which had stopped her in the past from going for attempt #2149 to find Malcolm’s softer side, but tonight was different.

She saw Sam over at the makeshift bar slowly draining a glass of Bacardi and refilling it just as smoothly. If Malcolm looked caged, his personal assistant looked like she’d been put in shackles and shipped to a remote zoo somewhere. Cold, unfeeling and numb. Betrayed.

Even after she’d shared a bed — and let’s be honest here Nicola, a night of amazing sex — with the young woman, Nicola still hesitated for a minute before going over to see what the matter was. She could lay decent money on it being something to do with Malcolm, and with the man himself being in the room she doubted that Sam would say anything. Sam was nothing if not loyal.

But Nicola had to try. One doesn’t just leave a friend to suffer alone.

***

When Nicola came up to stand next to her, Sam handed her the bottle of Bacardi and tapped on the open neck. “Careful with that, I lost the damn lid about half an hour ago,” she said in a surprisingly clear and steady voice, not drunk at all despite having downed what must have been nearly the whole bottle.

"Yeah, I noticed." Nicola looked around quickly and managed to find a discarded screw top that would fit the bottle. "It’s normally Terri I find with half a bottle of rum in her, not you. Is everything okay with…?" Her voice trailed off and she tilted her head in Malcolm’s direction, watching Sam’s shoulders slump. Nicola knew what that reaction meant.

Sam raised her eyes to Nicola and sighed. “Avian metabolism. I can’t get pissed without a fair bit of effort because I burn off the alcohol almost immediately. Shame really, I’d like a night with a fucking tub of Ben and Jerrys, a chick flick, and a bottle of Cabernet like a normal human female who’s been bloody dumped.”

"Malcolm…dumped you?" Nicola was incredulous. "But, why? When?"

Sam toyed with her glass for a long moment and then sighed, lowering her voice to a whisper. “He hasn’t ever told you about our bloody reproductive cycles has he?” Nicola could only shake her head, puzzled. This conversation was going off into a truly strange tangent indeed. “Winged females have heat cycles, yes? Like some animals do. Go through that, and all you can bloody think of is sex with the most powerful male nearby.”

"Malcolm." Nicola said flatly, and Sam nodded.

"Exactly."

Nicola’s mind flashed back to the wonderful and strange night that ended with her, Sam and Malcolm together in the same bed. Some of the things Malcolm had said then suddenly made sense.

"You two were…trying for a baby?!”

"Your mind shuts off, all you want is sex and babies. And now I’m not in heat, I’m not Nesting, and he doesn’t bloody want me anymore. There’s the whole fucking sordid truth." Sam drained her glass in one gulp and held out her hand. "Pass the rum."

Nicola handed over the bottle and tried not to sound too disbelieving. “Why wouldn’t he want you? You’re kind, you’re loyal—” You’re fucking beautiful…

"And if you haven’t noticed by now, I haven’t got wings. Not much of a bloody Winged without wings, now am I?"

"Sam, he doesn’t care about that, he loves you. He talks about you all the time. He says he can’t live without you."

Sam took another long draw. “He may not have a choice in the matter. If I can’t have a baby, my Flock will void our Contract.”

Nicola tried to remember what Sam had said that day about Contracts and Choosing and Joining through the alcohol-induced haze.

Meanwhile, Sam was beginning to feel the effects of the near bottle of rum, two pink spots flushing her cheeks. “Malcolm deserves better than me… he needs a mate who can fly with him, who can give him children with wings. There aren’t very many of us left, you know.”

But you’re a woman, not a piece of breeding machinery! Nicola wanted to scream out against this whole thing as the anger she’d felt when Sam had first told her about this whole arrangement — little girls paired off to much older men in some farcical ceremony — came back with reinforcements. But even drunk, Nicola knew the last thing Sam needed right now was a lecture on feminism.

She laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder and gave her a half-hug. “Look, I’m not following half of this and I’m not exactly the president of the Malcolm Tucker fan club” — that got a small smile from Sam — “but I do know that what that old buzzard wants, he’ll never give up on. If your family took you away, I bet he’d level every building between here and there to get you back.”

"But Nicola, if I don’t have a baby within a year or so, they will come and take me back and Malcolm would lose the link to the aristocracy that he wanted when he landed on my family estate all those years ago." Sam was close to tears now, tapping her fingers on the table aimlessly. "It’s politics first, and with an endangered species like ours that means increasing the population. End of."

Pulling the younger woman in tighter, Nicola shook her head. I’m now doing relationship advice for Malcolm Tucker. This must be the fucking weirdest holiday party to date. "It took me over six months to get pregnant with my first, don’t worry so much. Surely they don’t expect you to be expecting instantly?" And I’m not touching the issue of Malcolm as a father-to-be with a fifty foot barge pole.

"All my life, I’ve tried to be a good little penguin, do my duty and follow the traditions, but I’m not good enough—"

Fuelled by the mojitos and rum she’d drunk, Nicola pointed to a piece of plastic mistletoe hanging from a forlorn-looking light fitting and gave Sam a devilish smile. “Well, if it’s all about traditions…” She leaned forward, and though in hindsight, she was certain she’d aimed for her forehead, she gave the young woman a soft kiss on the lips…

The two women hardly knew how many seconds had passed with their lips and tongues dancing with the other’s, but they held each other close and let the outside world fade away, only parting when they heard a voice from directly behind them.

"Are we going to do the gift exchange now?" They’d been interrupted by Robyn Murdoch, her voice and bloodstream full of false holiday cheer, rattling a small wrapped box. The reminder that they were, after all, still in a crowded government office sent Nicola crashing back down to earth.

Nicola looked over at the rest of the office and locked eyes with Malcolm, who had quite obviously seen the little conversation she’d had with Sam, and was now giving her a glare that was at least 20 degrees lower than the outside temperature.

"Yeah," she said without taking her eyes off Malcolm or her arm off Sam, "I think that would be a good idea."

Before anyone could start the present-opening, Malcolm turned on his heel, grabbed his overcoat and scarf, and stomped out the door. Sam extricated herself from Nicola’s arm and hurried to follow him.

There was not much time to speculate on the reasons behind Malcolm’s bad mood and awkward farewell, because a distraction had arrived in the form of a red-faced, laughing Senior Press Officer.

"You have tae see this!” Jamie’s announcement, issued at his normal ear-splitting volume, cut over the tinny,  repetitive holiday music and gossip to render everyone silent in a second.

"Upstairs, on the roof!" Without looking to see if anyone was following him, the wee Scot turned on his heel and scarpered back toward the stairs.   
  
Even drunk, these people knew when Jamie MacDonald told you to follow, you fucking followed. Ollie went first, then Nicola and a rather drunk Glenn hanging onto Robyn, with Terri and everyone else following after. Several flights of stairs later, the group assembled on the freezing cold roof and stopped, their faces upturned into the moonlight.  
  
Jamie, grinning like the angel he certainly was’nae, was scraping snow off the top of a piece of concrete piping and trying to pat it into a snowball. “Look! Fucking snow! Actual fucking snow! I’ve not seen this since I was last in Scotland!”  
  
Indeed, it was actually fucking snowing. London, a city that so rarely saw anything other than sleet and rain, was hushed under a steadily falling cloud of white.

Any quiet contemplation of the chill beauty of winter was cut short when the first snowball landed squarely in Ollie’s face, starting the snowball fight proper.  

***

Malcolm had uncharacteristically left the party without saying a word; intent on getting back home before the snow got too thick, and to avoid the sight of most of DoSAC — and Jamie — pissed out of their tiny little minds and throwing snow at each other like weans. Depressed and pissed off, the absolute last thing Malcolm wanted to see was the happiness of others. If he wasn’t happy, he didn’t see why any other cunt should be.

And let’s be honest here, Tucker, it wasn’t as though Sam seemed to be suffering any kind of loss… his fucking traitorous mind supplied, and he gritted his teeth and tried not to hit something. Fuck her. Fuck Winged customs. Fuck Christmas. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

He strode through the deepening snow, his long black coat flowing behind him like the cape of the world’s skinniest Batman. Just a quick walk to the nearest taxi rank and then home to a warm drink and a punishingly hot shower; despite having a fast metabolism and avian tolerance to cold, Malcolm still hated the temperature outside.

He could hear someone approach, the clipped sound of a pair of semi-high heels trying to keep their footing despite the ice and snow, and he slowed his pace. There were only three fucking people it could be: Sam leaving to come home with him, Nicola trying for a drunken fuck, or Ollie somehow getting hold of a pair of heels and coming to Malcolm dressed like a right tart, also trying for a drunken fuck.

"Malcolm, wait!" Sam hurried along the icy sidewalk, trying to catch up with Malcolm’s long, swift strides. He stopped in the snow but didn’t turn around, even when she drew level and stopped, panting, winded from the long run. "Thought we’d share a taxi home like we usually do?" Her voice was carefully nonchalant, keeping things as noncommittal as the cold man obviously desired now that her heat cycle was over.

He nodded, still without looking, and she followed him to the taxis.

***

He’d not said a single word to her throughout the ride home.

Perhaps the rum still coursing through her blood was to blame for her actions once they’d got out of the taxi and Malcolm had paid, but Sam had had enough of it either way. Picking up a handful of snow, she packed it into a hard ball and threw it full force straight at Malcolm’s face.

"Don’t you ignore me, Malcolm Tucker!"  
  
The impact of the snowball nearly knocked Malcolm off his feet. Sometimes he’d forgotten that Sam was a Winged, and despite being flightless still possessed the strength and reflexes of one. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.  
  
He twisted backwards to dodge the next snowball and hurried to gather up some snow. He gave a wicked grin, forgetting every part of him that said he was supposed to be a respectable political figure, and sent a volley of snow towards his giggling Mate.  
  
They tore across the snow-covered streets of Hammersmith like two laughing children, kicking up the soft powder with every step. Sam was extraordinarily fast on her feet, keeping just ahead of Malcolm as they finally made it to his lawn.  
  
Darting between ice-covered parked cars made it harder for Malcolm to hurl snow at his Mate — a few of the bins had white splotches on them from several failed attempts. She really was swift, agile, expertly flitting between trees and neatly-trimmed shrubbery, and Malcolm began to suspect he’d never catch her on foot.  
  
Time to cheat…

***  
  
Sam was just turning back to throw a quick barrage of snow at her pursuer when she noticed his jacket hanging on the familiar tree in a pot by the front door. She took a step toward it and a snowball dropped squarely on the crown of her head —  
  
"—got ye!" Malcolm’s voice was triumphant as he jumped off the roof, simultaneously landing right in front of her and pulling her into his arms. His wings wrapped around her, further reinforcing his contention that he’d won.  
  
Both out of breath for the extended run, it was natural for them to lean against one another, finding balance as their hammering heart rates returned to normal. Sam’s head rested against his bare, whip-strong chest, her hands in Malcolm’s.   
  
Neither was sure who was the first one to step back, but a minute or two had passed before they realised they were looking into each other’s eyes, warm brown meeting silver grey.

In that perfect, silent, moment they both leaned in toward each other and kissed, softly, slowly, with none of the hurried and harsh motions of Mating. Their lips hardly moved, the tips of their tongues fleetingly touching, soft as the snowflakes landing  on their skin. Malcolm moved a hand up to run through her hair, pulling off the hair band she wore and letting her hair cascade down her back. Flakes of snow landed on their hair and dusted Malcolm’s wings with speckles of white.

Neither noticed this; there was only the silence of the falling snow, broken by the faint, soft moans of a couple kissing in the cold December night. Malcolm’s hands settled on the small of her back, and he pulled their bodies closer together without breaking contact with his lips. As her hands roamed to his arse, he could feel himself starting to get hard, but not with the suddenness or speed caused by the scent of a female in heat. This was slower, steady, each pounding beat of his heart making him rise more.

"You, you still want me?" Sam breathed, as though she couldn’t feel Malcolm’s insistent erection pressing against her hip.

"Was going tae ask ye the same cunting question. Ignore me most of the day, get off with fucking Nicola Knickerless—"

"Who you had your fingers up earlier. Don’t lie, I can smell you on her, and vice versa.”

Malcolm’s wings rustled briefly in anger but he kept himself in check. “Why the fuck are we talking about that dozy bint when there are far more interesting things we could be doing?” He curled his wings around Sam, sheltering her from the wind and snow that was starting to come down even harder in the dark December night.

"I’m not in heat anymore, Malcolm," Sam said quietly against his chest, and he huffed an annoyed snort.

"I don’t fucking care about that." He stroked her hair with one hand, letting the long silken strands flow through his fingers. "It’s you I want in mai bed, not just your fucking uterus. Fucking hell, I figured you’d not want a fifty-something auld —” He’d barely got the sentence out before Sam had grabbed his face and proceeded to try to lick his tonsils clean out of his throat.

"As much as I’d like to fuck yer brains out right here," Malcolm whispered as he came up for air a minute later, "it’s colder than a witch’s tit. Let’s get inside before someone sees us."

***

Sam pulled away and ran for the house, and once inside they dashed towards the bedroom, giggling like a pair of naughty schoolchildren. Malcolm shucked off his shoes and trousers, throwing them to the floor.

He picked Sam up and gently lifted her onto the bed, and with deft movements of his hands, he’d peeled Sam’s wet blouse off in one slow, fluid motion from the top down. He took only a brief moment to give her breasts an appreciative look before sliding her skirt over her hips and down her legs, making her shiver.   
  
"I’m a bit cold," Sam said once Malcolm had tossed her clothing aside.   
  
"Let me warm ye up then." He nimbly climbed in, straddling her hips, and draped his wings over her, fluffing out the grey feathers to trap heat. He took her into his arms and held her close, almost as if he were afraid she’d be taken away from him at any second.  
  
His elegant hands slipped over the curve of her shoulders and wandered down her naked body, stroking the skin of her breasts and stomach. He kissed her again, moving his lips down her jawline and neck, his feather-light kisses and caresses unexpectedly gentle, almost delicate.  
  
Awareness of every detail of her Mate’s body filled her every sense: the smell of powder down and sweet grooming oil, the way the light reflected off his silver hair and feathers, the hawkish nose and hollowed cheeks — the sleek lines of his body, the tensed muscle of his wide shoulders under her hands, the gentle brushing of wings over flesh that ached with need — and the thickness of his erection pressing against her stomach.   
  
"Malcolm —!" The name came out in a gasp.

His face split into a wicked grin, and the look in his eyes was downright predatory. This was the Malcolm F Tucker she knew — not the sullen, grim man she’d tried to avoid all day. She could almost laugh at how much of the day they’d both wasted being convinced the other didn’t want them, if not for the fact that Malcolm chose that moment to dance his fingers over her body and start nuzzling her neck.

“Mine," he muttered, almost growled, against her skin and she drew in a sharp breath. Not the near-predatory statement of ownership he’d given her when she first went into heat, this was more of an acknowledgement that they’d always be together. No flowers or cuddly toys for them; this was Malcolm’s brand of romance. She was his — and he was hers.

He loves you, can’t live without you. She had to remember to thank Nicola later for being so right.

Malcolm had worked his way down her naked body, nuzzling or stroking every inch, and sat back for a minute, cocking his head like an owl.

"Jesus titty-fucking Christ."

"What?" Sam asked, raising her hands to draw Malcolm back down onto her.

"That a fucking snowball fight has landed this stunning lass intae my bed. Never knew that worked.”

Sam laughed and pulled on Malcolm’s arms until he was lying back on top of her. “I’m going to note this in my diary: the day I got one up on the infamous Malcolm Tucker.”

"Fuckin’ wench."

"Shut up and take me."

"Well, as the lady orders." Malcolm coaxed Sam’s legs up until he was bracketed between her thighs. A series of small tender bites to her neck and shoulder soon had Sam murmuring and moaning underneath him, her hips shifting against his hard length.

***

There was nothing he would have liked better than to bury himself up to the hilt in her gorgeous body right then and there, but after the semi-drama of the day, the lass deserved more than a quick “how’s ye father.” She wasn’t in Heat anymore; he’d need to do proper foreplay, as if she were Wingless.

Malcolm took his teeth off her neck and lowered his head to her breast, licking and sucking, feeling the nipple grow even harder in his mouth as he darted his tongue across it, moving with such speed that it made her gasp and arch her back under him. He kissed her sternum, moving his thin lips down her abdomen. He held her tight, his nails digging into her back, moaning against her skin. Sam tasted of cold air and wild winds, with a faint undertone of rum, and he was going to make a witty comment about pirates when she ran her fingers through his hair and his mind went blank.

***

Sam shuddered and clawed at his scalp, pulling at the silver curls, shamelessly pushing his head down to where she wanted that wickedly foul mouth of his to go.

He slid his hands down over the curve of her arse, gently lifting her up so that her back was raised a little off the bed, spreading her legs apart. His wings spread high above and over her, a great silver shield.

"Mine. Forever."

Then his head dipped between her legs, his tongue dancing and flicking over her folds and clit until she writhed underneath his touch, and all rational thought fled, leaving only pure sensation. Between the light, flicking caresses of his tongue and the tickling brush of his feathers on her skin, Sam was getting closer with every second.

But even as she felt her orgasm build up with her, Malcolm shifted, moving up to nip at her neck and shoulders and breasts again, until she felt the throbbing in her overheated core ebb away.

She gritted her teeth. “Don’t — fucking — tease me like that—”

Malcolm chuckled at her language, cut her off with a scorching kiss, and then — and only then — did his fingers return, caressing and thrusting deep inside while his thumb rubbed at her clit, the sensations turning her bones to liquid.

Almost without awareness of doing it, Sam found her hands stroking the tops of Malcolm’s wings and coaxing him up the bed. She wanted him. Not with the burning, searing craving of Heat — she only wanted to have him inside her, no more and no less. To connect. To never let go.

Malcolm didn’t faff about. He crawled up the bed to her and spread his grey wings to their full expanse — here I am, all of me, still want me?

Wrapping her legs around his narrow waist, she pulled him into her in one swift motion. He filled her right to the hilt and stayed still only for a second before he started to move slowly back and forth — stoking her fires with a perfect rhythm, raising her to the peak again. It was all the answer he needed — and all the answer she needed.

Sam was shortly moaning and writhing under him, her hands capable only of clawing through his hair and holding his mouth to her neck as he pushed deeper still into her. It didn’t take long before she felt the familiar crushing pressure between her thighs and came, half-crying in relief and joy, around him when it burst. This was what she had dreamed of: a lover so completely in love with her, so attuned to her, that they were of one flesh, of one mind.

She distantly heard him hit his own orgasm, a sigh of relief through clenched teeth and a pulsing deep inside her, before she drifted into exhausted sleep.

***

Sam felt something warm, heavy, and soft enveloping her. Before she had even opened her eyes, the first thing that came to her drowsy mind was that she was safe and happy, happier than she’d been since she could remember.

She blinked awake to find Malcolm’s head resting on her shoulder, his face in slumber more peaceful than she’d even seen it. His sinewy arms and legs wrapped around her body, his soft grey wings half-folded and spread over them both.

Sam thought that the sight of Malcolm Tucker, naked and sleeping next to her, was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen… even softly snoring, with his feathers and hair all mussed, limbs sprawled wide.

She smiled, ran her hand through his silver curls, and settled back into sleep, gently pulling a wing up over herself.

Mine.

***

Nicola awoke with what had to be a brain tumour, as no hangover had ever made her feel like she’d drunk printer toner all night, and opened her tear-encrusted eyes to a sea of bright white.

“Coffee?” came a voice that she vaguely recognised as male, as a steaming mug of black liquid was moved into her field of vision. She briefly wondered if she had actually died and passed on to the afterlife. Would she be served coffee in heaven?

She blinked rapidly until the scene of her brightly-lit office slowly swam into view, where she’d somehow managed to sleep the night at her desk.

Nicola looked up to see Ollie, rumpled shirt and all, leaning down and holding out a cup of Café Nero’s finest.

“Thank fuck, you are still alive. I did not fancy explaining to Herr Tucker later that I’d managed to kill an MP on Christmas Day.” As Nicola grimaced at the foul, but welcome, taste of a double espresso, Ollie kept talking. “No idea where the Grim Reaper himself went last night, either. Probably breaks out in a rash if he sees people having fun, he fucked off right about the snow fight.”

Nicola finally found her voice. “Just out of interest: what time did Sam leave?”

“Practically ran after him. Poor girl never, ever, takes a bloody night off from being his shadow.”

Even through her cataclysmic headache, Nicola managed to stifle a smile.

***

Sam awoke to find Malcolm leaning over her, a tray with breakfast and a cup of hot cocoa in one hand, and a small parcel wrapped with paper and ribbon in the other. He gave her a soft kiss before setting the tray into her lap and joining her in bed.

He curled up and wrapped his arms around her, his wings settling around him. “Happy Christmas, Sam.”

"Happy Christmas, Malcolm."

"I promise it’s not another fuckin’ dead pigeon."


End file.
